WONDERFUL LOVE MAGNET by THE SEEDS: FOUR SELECTIONS. (Noise/experimental music.)
I was worried that the baby would pull the coffin down on top of her. Right off of the catafalque. Did you know I learned that word from reading about Lincoln's prophetic dream?
Two couches were adjacent to eachother. I don't know, they might have smelled curiously of corpses. The place was a little, dark, out of the way spot, possibly situated at the end of a dead end road, in some pissant burg all you see is cornfields going in and coming out.
She lay down on the couch. I tell her, I'm afraid that kid is gonna pull that damn box down on top of her. Then, it will be all over for us. Disgraced, as it were , before the family even arrives for the funeral.
Inside the box a relative of whatever stripe has been situated in rough, mannequin-like repose...but maybe someone has sawed off the ends of his feet, because he looks as if he has been shrunk down to accomadate a toy coffin. The face is straight from some silent era moviestar magazine, and the collar is an anachronistic stiff, detachable affair. The hair is white. I look down at the body. The face looks vaguely familiar.
The baby, a mewling, caterwauling little shitbag that moves with the herky-jerky comic speed of a cinematic fastforward, rushes into the gloom in back of the place. Toward a staircase that spirals upward, from the gloom and darkness into the darkness and black. I pick the baby up, smell the miasmic whiff of bowel evacuation, carry the baby back into the front parlor or viewing room, tell her, She smells. I bet she's messed her diapers.
Well, obviously, is the reply I get.
People start milling in after a jump cut. An obese cousin, whose relative is surely the man lying in the abbreviated box up front, has brought a special portrait done entirely in colored thumbtacks. I do a double take. It looks, after a moment of visual adjustment, as if it should be hanging on the wall of a Chinese eatery.
She turns her ample backside to me, pulls out a laptop computer, begins to play a game thta looks like it was ripped from an Atari home console in 1986. Like little digital cats situated against blocks or squares. I make that everyone grieves in their own way, dig, but, looking at the crowd shuffling around the periphery of the viewing room, I note the strangeness of this shuffling, maddening, idiot throng, and the cousin pipes up, "Have you ever heard of these strange cults?"
"Yes. No. Not horses. Cults. Like, cults of worshippers..."
I have no idea, but I nod in acquiescence.
"They worship," she begins, her puffy white face looking askance at me, not wanting to take her eyes off of the Atari video game cat-tac-toe, "...monsters, demons...but the ones they worship are imaginary."
My mind, for some reason, flies South to the image of a Texas town, circa 1845 or thereabouts, and a dusty, bedraggled man walking toward his destiny, gun drawn, slitted eyes scanning the wind-blown streets as tumbleweed and tumuli blow across his path in the distance. Hidden, he knows (I know) in some abandoned saloon, where the walls have been painted streaks of coyote blood, is a mad group, a forbidden church of worshippers, whose sacred, bloody rites are intoned by a malefic priest, disguised and wearing the headdress of a slaughtered goat, lifting his pale arms skyward, ceiling ward, over a bubble, bubble, toil and trouble cauldron of ginny bits of kidney and eggs what bled when they were cracked open. His robes are yellow.
Above, Aldebarran spreads her whorish array, as vast, inscrutable alien intelligences watch their mournful offspring caterwaul and crawl across the rocky surface below. All is.
"Anton La Vey had a book called The Satanic Rituals. In it, there is an 'Invocation to Dracula', a fictional character, of course, as well as a 'Call to Cthulu '. Fictional monster or deity numero two-o. I should be surprised at such things?"
A woman with a knapsack comes up to me smiling, Evidently she has been overhearing us conveniently. She pulls out a dusty, heavy volume, looks to be seventy years old. On the cover it says sometimg something "...South of Sarnath." I think. H.P. Lovecraft, again.
There is a screech outside, the general burning rubber squeal of tires and the projection of gravel through space and possibly through nanoseconds of time. I rush out front to find some maniac has spilled out of his car.
His car has, very nearly, Tboned another car in the gravel-fileld lot out front. More mourners.
"I tell you," says the man, "Stalin was worse. Far, far worse..."
Murder is murder, I guess. I go back into the funeral parlor viewing room. Inside, it's still dark. But, not nearly so dark as before.
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